


Tuesday

by pitchpatronus



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, light wayward son spoilers, soft angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22305298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pitchpatronus/pseuds/pitchpatronus
Summary: A little snippet that takes place between Carry On and Wayward Son, based off my artwork.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	Tuesday

Simon Snow is lying on the sofa.

It’s a Tuesday, and my composition class ended early, so I made my way to Snow and Bunce’s tiny, third floor flat. I stand in the doorway and take it in, trying to decipher which kind of Tuesday this will be.

Simon doesn’t really have good days and bad days. He has bad days and worse days. On the worse days, it’s like a dense fog has descended all around him, sealing him off from the outside world. He lays for hours, staring unblinkingly at some spot on the ceiling or the back of the couch. He won’t talk or eat. At first, I would try to engage him on his worse days...try to coax him out of his trance with conversation or his favorite foods. He would just roll over and face away from me, press his nose into the crease of the couch cushions. Now I sit in the lumpy arm chair nearby and read a book or work on an essay for school. I don’t know if my presence makes a difference to him. Maybe he would be happier if I just left altogether, but I selfishly stay for my own comfort. I need to be near him, to see him, to smell him. To hear his heart beating slowly, but steadily, as he hibernates within himself.

Today, though, Simon is sitting up, his curls a golden tumble against the olive green cushions of the couch we carried down from the Bunces’ attic. A rerun of  _ Top Gear _ plays quietly on the television (it’s the one where they drive across Ukraine in compact hatchbacks. Not my favorite.). I cross slowly from the door, and Simon tracks me with his eyes, not moving his head from where it leans against the couch. 

“Hey,” I say. I set my coffee cup and satchel down, shrug off my coat.

“Hey,” he says back. His voice is rough, as if he hasn’t used it all day. He probably hasn’t. I start to wonder when was the last time he spoke. I make a mental note to text Bunce about it.

Simon holds up the edge of the neon pink blanket in invitation, and I perch on the coffee table to remove my boots. I glance up to find Simon watching me, and I grin a bit. I use the moment to fully take him in. He’s pale, with dark circles under his eyes, and his freckles stand out in stark contrast across his cheeks. His hair is mussed and frizzy, and I wonder if he’ll let me condition it for him later. Today he’s wearing the same purple Watford Lacrosse hoodie he wore yesterday, but with a fresh pair of dark grey trackies, which I count as a victory.

Simon blinks, and I realize with a slight flush how long I’ve been staring. It makes my heart squeeze uncomfortably that my gaze, once full of desire, is now full of concern. I push the feeling away and climb onto the couch.

Simon scoots forward, and I move back into the spot he’s hollowed out for me behind him. He pulls my arm up and over him, draping it across his chest and lacing our fingers together. I bury my nose in his curls and breathe in the scent of him, closing my eyes as I rub my cheek against his soft hair. Simon makes a small sound of contentment, which promptly morphs into a yawn.

“Did you sleep last night?” I ask. He’s quiet for a moment, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. I wait.

“About an hour,” he replies at last. “But then the dream started, and I couldn’t go back to sleep after that.” I squeeze him with my arm in a makeshift hug. I don’t tell him that I couldn’t sleep either. I don’t tell him that I spend most of my nights studying my economy notes over and over in the blue light of my laptop. I don’t tell him that I have  _ the dream _ , too.

“Sleep now,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Mm,” he breathes. He settles back deeper into me, wiggles his legs until I’m half on top of him, my left leg draped over his hip. He sighs a deep, relaxed sigh, and I see his eyelashes begin to dip from over the edge of his cheek, like the wings of a butterfly.

The room is quiet (save for the sounds of Jeremy Clarkson and his Volkswagen Up!), and between Simon’s body heat and Bunce’s obnoxiously pink blanket, I’m finally feeling warm. I decide that for this moment, it’s okay to let it go: Simon’s dry hair and dark circles. His sleepless nights. The upcoming exam in my finance class. The sense memory of my fangs as they pressed against The Mage’s throat. I let it go. For the next hour, I make a pact with myself that I don’t have to think about them.

My eyelids grow heavy, and, lulled by the sound of Simon’s heart, steadfastly beating, I fall asleep.


End file.
